


You Might Be...

by roanniom



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Cockwarming, Dom/sub, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, NSFW, Smut, Submissive Kylo Ren
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29486448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roanniom/pseuds/roanniom
Summary: In a different reality, you are the voice in the dark which turns Ben Solo, not Snoke. You shape him and mold him into an instrument that will do your bidding - wielding violence and pleasure wherever you see fit.
Relationships: Kylo Ren & Reader, Kylo Ren & You, Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	You Might Be...

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tiny taste of a larger muli-chapter fic I will soon be working on, written in response to an anon on tumblr who asked "am I getting a wiff of....sub!Kylo?" in response to hints of this new idea. The answer to that sweet anon? You might be...

You might come to know a young Ben Solo as he balances precariously on the precipice of the dark side.

You might be the first tether to sanity he’s ever experienced, regardless of how mercurial and unstable that tether may be.

You might break through the dark swirling mist that has clouded his mind all his life, finally burning through the haze with a fire that ignites something inside him long suppressed by Jedi tutelage and his own internal conflict.

You might provide him with a purpose he has never known, an environment in which he can reconcile the disciplines of his training with the increasingly volatile passions - rage, despair, and otherwise - which consume him without shame.

You might offer him a place in the galaxy. Prestige and power and pride the likes of which the pious, pathetic Jedi never would have approved.

You might illuminate the ways in which pain and pleasure mix to create a violent cacophony of sensations. Sensations that fill his body with a strength beyond description, even as that strength is focused on the sole endeavor of serving you.

You might show him that this new burning that sears his mind and body can be harnessed to empower him far more than cool reason ever had. That his ability to do your bidding is made all the more efficient by his desire to please you. To worship you.

You might just kill Ben Solo, a boy no longer fit to wear the mantle of your good graces. From his ashes rises Kylo Ren, the man whose hungers and urges are best devoted to you - his master. His creator. The keeper of forbidden knowledge and bliss and agony and punishment and praise.

You might allow him to kneel at your feet, his gaze tipped upward to take in your majesty as you tower above him, despite the fact that upright your positions would be reversed. The smallness of your hand as it closes around his chin is not lost on him, nor is the juxtaposition of your skins softness with the harsh way you grip him, forcing him to look you in the eye as you deliver either honeyed approval or biting condemnation. 

You might root his mind at night from the distance of your palatial quarters, a voyeur to his fitful dreams. Ones which wake him in the fevered early morning hours, leaving him sweat-drenched and aching. The tendrils of your consciousness touching his like a hand moving down the length of his body. Low low low low until he’s whimpering in the darkness, relieving the ache with only his hand, unaware of his audience. 

You might order him to sit on your own throne, but not so he can experience its power. Only you have that privilege, something of which he is well aware. No, guards long since sent away, you have him on your throne, stripped of his robes. Legs spread. You step forward clad only a gown of gauze which billows around you as you approach, the outline of your body entirely visible beneath the see-through fabric. His cock twitches, standing at attention, eyes wide as he takes in the promise of your form and the benevolence of your favor. 

You might turn as you reach him, back to his chest as you ascend your throne to assume your seat of power. His cock sliding through your readied folds, large and swollen and hot inside you. Stretching you and filling you in a way that ripples through every nerve ending, causing static to form in the warm air of the throne room. His hands remain on the arm rests, motionless except for the occasional twitch as he suppresses a desperate need to grip, to hold, to touch, to possess. Because that’s not what this is about. This is about you and the way you can use him. Kylo Ren, your instrument of violence and death and pleasure and devotion. Kylo Ren whose lightsaber and cock both bend - and stand - at your will. 

You might ride him hard and fast, savoring the whimpers that spill from his lips unbidden as you grind down and chase your own relief with no consideration for his own. 

And when you cum, you might dismiss him, watching him stagger out of the room - still naked and still hard - completely unfulfilled while you recline, sated and pleased. Or, if you’re feeling very generous you may let him sit at your feet, caged between your legs as he faces away from you and tugs his member. His fist is no substitute for the heaven of your cunt which you so ruthlessly wrenched from him immediately following your orgasm. But there is a compromise in the way you bend over him to rake your nails up and down his broad chest from behind. Whispering sweetness into his ears that contrasts with the stinging bites and nips you administer to his ears, his neck, his shoulders. 

You might praise him as he cums, shaking and moaning below you. The destroyer you’d so carefully created now beautifully destroyed by pleasure also of your own creation. 

You might own Kylo Ren. But he might have come to desire nothing more in the galaxy than to be owned by you. 

~*~


End file.
